


Reuocandum

by samchandler1986



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-04 12:05:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12770703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samchandler1986/pseuds/samchandler1986
Summary: Ask her no secrets, she'll tell you no lies.[Eleven goes exploring through the ephemera of Hopper's cabin. Essentially a continuation of Boxes]





	Reuocandum

Today he is angry, and she doesn’t know why.

He’s not mad at _her_. That much she understands. But there’s something in the line of his shoulders when he’s making breakfast. In the way he sighs at nothing. There’s an itch under his skin he can’t scratch and won’t talk about.

She needs to know why.

So—once he’s kissed the top of her head goodbye, and made her promise to at least attempt problems one through fifteen in the mathematics book he’s suddenly become so keen on—once he’s definitely gone to work, and won’t find out what she’s doing—she goes exploring.

There are boxes and boxes of things, filling the cabin attic as well as the cellar. All with their own stories. Today she only wants to hear one. She takes a breath, tries to relax for a second. Cricks her neck left and right.

 _Focus_.

He’s upset, angry. Those emotions are easy to read, all on the surface. Things that relate to that anger should be easy to find.

 _On the left_ …

An old box, very dusty. Labelled in fading marker: _447 Kelly Drive_. And at the bottom, a crumpled cigarette carton. Not his brand: Lucky Strikes. A red toy fire-engine, so old that as far as she’s concerned it may as well be Neolithic. Heavy tin and flaking red paint. Nothing like the moulded plastic of Mike’s toys that she’s used to. She takes both of them out of the box, and closes the attic back up.

She doesn’t do anything with them right away. Makes herself a drink and watches a soap opera. Answers the first five math problems. But in the corner of her eye she can see them on the table. Like a splinter, nagging at her. She has to know.

She brings some tissues over to the table, preparation for the inevitable nosebleed, and takes a deep breath.

She puts her hand on the cigarette packet and _listens_ _—_

* * *

“Hey Jimmy, how’s your Daddy doin’?”

Oh, how he’s learned to hate those words.

“Pretty much the same Mrs Patterson. Thanks for asking.”

“Such a shame, such a shame.” It always ends the same way. The crease of a kind face, the wave of hands. Like the flapping can somehow ward off the evil eye that struck down Big Frank Hopper in his prime.

It’s all such _bullshit_ —

Horowitz’s fingers catch his for a moment, give them a gentle squeeze. “Hey,” she says, softly. It means: I’m here. I see you.

Walking to school with him is out of her way, he’s pretty sure. Still, he’s grateful that she’s chosen to do it these past few weeks, even if it doesn’t make much sense.

Nothing about them really makes much sense, not at first glance. Joyce is the sort that keeps her head down at school. Pretty, maybe, but dowdy in her hand-me-down jumper and out of style skirt. Not a jock, not a nerd. Somewhere in the middle and therefore pretty much invisible.

Hopper’s never been that. Not Harrington popular, of course. But smart enough, sporty enough, just occasionally naughty enough for everyone to know his name. Teachers like him. Well, apart from Mr Cooper, but that guy’s always been an _asshole_ _—_

“Hey, Jimmy! Give my best to your Dad, won’t you?”

“Thanks Mr Wallerstein. I will.”

“I’ve got something for you, by the way,” Joyce says lightly, before he spirals off into himself again.

“Really?”

“Yeah.” She twists her satchel round, smiling shyly. Fumbles with the strap to show him the contraband inside. “For between fifth and sixth.”

A packet of cigarettes. Not the Camels he steals… stole from his Dad. Miss D smokes Luckies. It makes him feel profoundly grateful and horribly sad, all at the same time. Hated tears prick at his eyes again. Crying would make Dad cross, so he sniffs and grinds his teeth together until the moment passes.

“Thanks,” he manages gruffly.

Nothing about them makes sense, unless you _know_ —

* * *

 

—she’s one of his first memories. She doesn’t know that; he’s never told her.

Five years old and waiting at the foot of the stairs in the new house, with his hair all pasted down and wearing braces. “You look good Jimmy,” says his mother. “Very smart. Now, can you remember what we said about tonight?”

He nods, with the solemnity only a five-year-old can muster. “Play nice, share my toys. No loud noises.”

“That’s right, well done.”

He’s anxious about the fire-truck, though. Doesn’t want to say it, but it’s the biggest, shiniest toy in the box. There’s no way the other children won’t want to play with it, but will they play _right_? Bobby Henderson came to play at the old house, and ran one of his matchbox cars right down the stairs, chipping all the paint. He can’t bear to think of that happening to the fire-truck.

He seizes his moment when his mother goes to check on the final dinner preparations. Runs back upstairs and puts the truck in the safest place he can think of: his bed. Safely hidden, he returns to his station at the front door, waiting on the doorbell.

It rings at last and Dad opens the door to an overwhelming cacophony of noise and people. Jim waits patiently at the foot of the stairs. Mr and Mrs. Willetts first, who pinch his cheeks and ruffle his oiled hair. He tolerates this with good grace, and sure enough Mr Willetts has pressed a penny-chew into his hand by the time they pass through to the dining room. Mr and Mrs. Willetts can’t have any children, it has been explained, and it is good for Jim to be a nice boy and be kind to them.

Next come Mr and Mrs. Henderson, curly-haired Bobby overcome with uncharacteristic shyness, his face buried in his mother’s leg as they cross the threshold. She unpeels him expertly, pointing him towards the TV room where there are sandwiches waiting for the children to eat.

And finally comes Miss Dufresne. She is small and thin, dark eyes overlarge in her face. In other circumstances, Jim has observed, she is often unwelcome. He thinks this has something to do with what the Sunday School teachers call That Illegitimate, although what exactly this means he’s hazy about. He remembers his parents arguing about it once: his father shouting _James Horowitz was a damn fine man and no matter what anyone says, I believe That Illegitimate is his daughter, and that's the end of it._

“Hello Jim,” Miss Dufresne says. She’s the only one that ever remembers he prefers Jim over Jimmy. “It’s very nice to see you.” A matching pair of brown eyes peer out from around her skirt. “This is Joyce. She’s very pleased to meet you.”

She doesn’t look it, not if Jim’s any judge, but he knows what to do. He sticks out his hand. “Pleased to meet you too.”

Joyce says nothing, but shakes his hand very firmly.

“Now, play nice you three,” says his mother, giving him a pointed look.

She doesn’t need to worry so. Grandpa Tom has already explained—in great detail—that to bear the name Hopper means to be brave and kind, and a leader of men. Grandpa Tom was a Sergeant in the Great War, and Frank was a Lieutenant in the next. They’re counting on Jim to become a Captain when America needs service again, so he must be brave and he must be kind. This all seems quite straightforward to Jim – and easy enough now he knows his fire-truck is safe.

Joyce follows him in silence to the sandwiches. Her eyes, already saucers, somehow inflate further at the sight of the corned beef. She remembers her manners just in time.

“May I?”

“Help yourself.”

She takes her first bite, something rapturous in her expression striking a chord with Jim. He’s never seen anyone enjoy a sandwich quite like that before.

“You can have more,” he finds himself saying. “We’ve got lots.”

She manages five, which impresses even Bobby. “Mama said you’d be nice,” she volunteers, when she’s finished.

He nods. “I’m a Hopper,” he explains, “it’s the rules.”

“Huh,” mocks Bobby, “Hopper like a _frog_.”

Joyce giggles at this. “What are _you_ then?”

“I’m a Henderson. It’s a Scottish name.”

“Well, I’m a Horowitz.”

“No, you’re a Dufresne,” corrects Bobby. “You have the same name as your parents.”

“No,” says Joyce firmly. “Only if they’re married. My Daddy died in the war before he could come back and marry my Mama.”

“I’m sorry,” says Bobby, and he means it. “That’s sad.”

Joyce shrugs. “For my Mama it is. Do you have any toys, Hopper?”

“Yes,” he says, “upstairs.”

Together they empty out the whole box. Bobby takes the scratched matchbox cars and zooms them around the room. Joyce, unbelievably, seems disappointed in the contents. “No dollies?”

“Dollies are for _girls_ ,” Jim says, appalled. “I do have Tiger.” He points to the stuffed toy on his pillow, watchful protector against bogeymen and anything else that might go bump in the night.

“Oh, okay,” replies Joyce, mollified. She goes to pick up tiger, and notices the lump of the fire-truck under the covers. Horrified, Jim watches her peel back the sheet. “Oh!” she says, at the sight of the bright red truck. She looks as happy as she did when she saw the sandwiches. “Hopper, can I play with this one?”

A very large part of him wants to say no. But there’s something in her expression, how deliriously happy she is, that he can’t bring himself to take away.

He nods, magnanimous. Brave and kind, Grandpa Tom said, and this is both. “ _You_ can. Not Bobby though. And… and you have to be very careful—

* * *

Jane opens her eyes slowly, taking one of the tissues and using it to wipe the blood from her face. It’s always strange to think of grown-ups as children, to realise that they didn’t spring into the world fully formed but were just silly kids too, once-upon-a-time. Still, she has no answer to her question—

_The receipt by the door._

Her head snaps around. There’s a scrap of paper with some loose change Hopper emptied out of his pocket last night. She hadn’t noticed it before – why would she? Just a piece of trash.

She goes to look at it more closely. Coffee and a sandwich from Jo’s Diner. Her fingers twitch over the paper, but curiosity wins—

* * *

 

She’s reading a book at the counter, looks up at the _ding_ of the store bell. And she’s pleased to see him, she really is, but there’s a moment of disappointment she can’t quite hide. Not from him. It’s the wrong man walking through the door at Melvald’s, and the right one is never coming back.

“Hey, Hop,” she smiles. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he replies, glancing around the store to see if they can be overheard. “Everything’s fine. I was just… uh. In the neighbourhood. Wondered if you wanted… lunch?”

“Oh, I…” And she’s torn, she is, and for a moment he thinks she might—but then her smile fades a little, jaw set. “I don’t think I can, Hop. Not right now. I’m-I’m sorry—”

“Hey, no, it’s fine,” he lies, “I’ll see you in a couple of weeks for Will’s next check-up, right?”

“Or if El—Jane I mean—wants to come around and have dinner with the boys?”

“Yeah. Yeah, she’d like that. I’ll, uh, I’ll let you know—

* * *

Jane takes a breath, back in the present moment. This is not something Hopper would ever have chosen to share with her, and she feels guilty for prying. There’s no easy fix – but she puts the cigarette carton and the fire-truck back where she found them and turns off the TV. Struggles diligently to complete not just problems five to fifteen, but all the sums on the next page as well. Once that’s done she finds a duster and then the broom, sweeping the floors like he taught her.

When he returns, at five thirty sharp, he is surprised by her fierce hug. “What’s all this about?” he asks, suspicious.

“Nothing,” she says, and squeezes him more tightly.

“Hmmm,” he manages, still cynical, but smiling now. “Well, it’s good to see you too, kid.”

**Author's Note:**

> For the record, dolls are definitely not just for girls ;P


End file.
